


Two Plaid Shirts

by savingpeoplehuntingthings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas is dead, Crying, Dean is alone, Destiel - Freeform, Everyone has died., Grief/Mourning, M/M, Sad, Sam is dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 07:42:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savingpeoplehuntingthings/pseuds/savingpeoplehuntingthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean leaves the hotel and starts on a long drive to nowhere, without his brother, because his brother is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Plaid Shirts

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'd and written at 2am so please comment with any mistakes or things you think I should change.

"Checking out sir?" asked the girl at the reception desk with a shy smile. She was cute, no doubt about that. Her blond hair fell over her large brown eyes which caught glints of the early morning sun through the windows. In any other circumstances, he would have flirted.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to avoid his voice cracking. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah. Thanks…um-" he glanced at her name tag, struggling to read the small letters: "-Martha." With all that had happened, he'd lost his smooth, suave, sexy mannerisms. Quietly, he dug into his pocket, avoiding her bashful gaze. Finding his wallet, he pulled out one of his many credit cards and paid for the room they'd had for just over a week.

"Would you like someone to take your bags to the car?" she enquired, fiddling with a hotel notepad on the desk with long, nervous fingers.  
He gave a little shake of his head. "No I'm - I'm good." He paused, looking at the floor. He needed to leave. Now. Before he broke down in front of her. "Thanks," he mumbled, and quickly dropped the room keys on the desk before turning away. Their bags were on the floor. His. And Sam's. He swung the two large duffel bags over his shoulder and picked up the other two smaller ones with his right hand. They were heavy. He walked out, not looking back, only pausing to let the automatic sliding doors open. Sammy had always preferred the expensive hotels.

Once outside, he breathed in the fresh morning air and let the soft breeze dry the tears that were pooling in his bloodshot eyes. He found the car in the somewhat busy parking lot and shoved the bags into the back seat. Then he slid into the driver's side, taking comfort in the familiar creak of the doors and smell of sweat and dirt and alcohol. Turning the key in the ignition, he sat back in the seat and waited.

It only took him a spilt second to realise that he was alone. There was no Sam to wait for. Not any more. He wasn't talking to that cute receptionist, paying for the room, saying goodbye to the couple in the room next door who he'd managed to befriend, or any of the things he would be doing. 

Dean swallowed thickly and turned up the heating. It was hot outside. It was hot in the car. Yet he was cold. He resisted the temptation to reach over and rummage through a duffel bag to find an extra layer. It would be a shirt of course. Sam's. Of course. 

Stop thinking about him, he told himself, turning on some music to force his concentration onto something else. Funny. Sam used to sing along to this song; smiling, embarrassed, but not really caring because the Winchesters were renowned for hunting, not singing. 

He set off, reversing out of the parking space, trying to focus on something else. Driving always took his mind off things. Except 'things' weren't usually Sam. Well, things were always about Sam; like god Sam's such a little bitch, Sam always takes too long in the shower, Sam's way taller than me - that sucks, that gorgeous bartender liked Sam more, I was kinda proud of Sam in that last hunt… But 'things' were never Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead.

Sam's gone, Dean. Sam's dead. He's dead. You burnt him. I burnt him. Sam's dead. He's dead. He's fucking dead. He's not coming back. Sam's dead. You're alone. I'm alone. Sam's dead. You lost mom. Then dad. Sam's dead. Dad died to save you. Sam's dead. Why did dad die to save me? Sam's dead. You're not worth saving. I'm not worth saving. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Why did Cas even save me? Sam's dead. He pulled you out from hell. Sam's dead. Hell is where you belong. Sam is dead. He's fucking dead. You belong in hell Dean. Sam's dead. Hell. Sam's dead. He's ashes now. Sam's dead. You didn't even keep his ashes. Sam's dead. You got Jo and Ellen killed. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. You lost Lisa. Ben. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. You lost Bobby. You lost Sam. I lost Sam. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Sam's dead. Cas - his precious fucking angel. He'd lost Cas. His Cas. Now his Sam. Sam's dead. Sammy's dead. He's dead. You're all alone, Dean. All alone. Sammy… my little Sammy... 

At some point around the border between Illinois and Wisconsin, something caught his attention: a little glimmer to his right. Then it disappeared. It took Dean a while to work out what had made such a small golden sparkle in the sunset. Then he realised. It was a hair. Sam's hair, on the seat of the Impala. His stupid fucking hair which he refused to cut. The only thing left of his baby brother. 

He was glad the road was empty, at least afterwards, when he could think straight again, because he just closed his eyes and wailed, leaning his head against the steering wheel and making the car swerve. Some common sense, buried deep under the pain, told him to gently press on the brakes until the Impala slowed to a standstill, with him inside, unable to see because of the tears coursing down his red cheeks; or hear, for the blood pumping in his ears and his choking, guttering sobs. 

It got dark soon after that. Or maybe it wasn't soon. Dean had sort of lost track of time somewhere between stopping the car in the middle of the road and delving into Sam's duffel bag to find a shirt to put on, and his iPod to listen to. Then he'd moved the car slowly to the side of the road and sat in the passenger seat - Sam's seat, listening to cheesy music that Sam liked, and wearing a blue and yellow plaid shirt over his own red plaid shirt. He was glad no-one was here to see him. He didn't know whether Sam would have laughed or cried at the pathetic sight of his brother; the man monsters were afraid of, huddled against the window in two un-matching plaid shirts, listening to Michael Bublé with hot tears running down his face. He would never know. 

He never got to say I love you. Not to Sam. To his countless girlfriends, yes. To Lisa, yes. To Cas, definitely. But to Sam? He hadn't said I love you to Sam since they were tiny and he was a sappy five year old with a big heart and even bigger round eyes, saying goodbye to Sammy as he went off on his first day at school. Fuck them and their stupid manly, Winchester pride. 

Sam, I love you. Sammy. I. Love. You. 

What was the last thing he said to Sam? "You check right. I'll go left." It was an order. An order whispered harshly in the shadows. Sam had obeyed. He always, or nearly always, did. What he said to Sam before that, something that wasn't about the hunt, was lost in the muddle of grieving and crying and eating and not sleeping - not at all. He couldn't remember. And he would spend every day trying to remember.

**Author's Note:**

> Any mistakes or things I should change?


End file.
